


Through Sorrow to Find Joy

by Sleepless_Malice



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of canon references and I do mean a lot, M/M, Memory Loss, Pining, Slow Burn, Snarky characters, non-physical punishment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-14 17:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14140506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: Confined to repent for his crimes in the everlasting darkness of the Halls of Awaiting, isolated and with all pleasant memories lost, it is light and brightness that Fëanor begins to crave.





	1. The Call of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aconeyislandofthemind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aconeyislandofthemind/gifts).



> For [Sofie](http://nyarnamaitar.tumblr.com/), the biggest Manwë Stan around, who wished for a story 'where Manwë's not the one pining for Fëanor, but the other way around.'  
> *
> 
> The title of this story comes from the answer that Fëanor gives Manwë’s herald in the Histories of Middle-Earth: “In Aman we have come through bliss to woe. The other now we will try: through sorrow to find joy. Or at the least: freedom!'
> 
> *  
> What originally started as a short one-shot got a little bit out of hand (as always). Apologies.
> 
> *  
> The portrayal of Námo in this story does not follow my hcs for him 100%. He is as he is in this story for two reasons: a) to make the entire story work b) to prevent myself from sub-consciously writing Námo/Fëanor into it. The fic is supposed to be about Manwë/Fëanor, after all.
> 
> *  
> A HUGE thanks to [@bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn) , my amazing beta reader who did such an amazing job! <3

**Chapter 01 - The Call of Darkness**

*****

The silent whisperers of darkness were everywhere; around him, above and below him, wrapping their black fingers around the houseless spirit of Fëanor from the moment he entered the Halls of Awaiting. Darkness had become a constant in his afterlife, a mocking irony for one who had shone so brightly while alive. Yet even the blackness of the never-ending night would never quench his fire. Even then, it flickered and leapt.

His fiery spirit had brought him to the Halls of Awaiting in the first place. Fëanor still remembered that; it had brought him to isolation faster than he had expected.

Brought before the onyx throne of the Lord of these hostile halls by two of Námo's silent servants, some days after his arrival, Fëanor’s spirit lashed out in anger towards the one who had laid Doom upon him and all those who had followed into exile. The moment his spirit had made contact with the Vala he cried out,

_‘By Eru Allfather, I would rather be a thrall on earth than be ruled by a lifeless spirit sitting idle on his throne whilst the world falls into chaos by the inaction of thy kin.’_

Even in death he was still a master of words with a tongue sharp as a blade, yet his passionate speech was met with indifference. It angered him.

_‘Thralldom you desired to escape, yet here you are. What strange irony to abide your days in the everlasting darkness as a thrall within my halls. To everlasting darkness you swore yourself, did you not?’_ The Lord of the Dead told him, a mocking edge to his voice.

Faintly, the Oath – what parts he still remembered of it – stirred in Fëanor’s spirit. _‘To the Everlasting Darkness.’_

Fëanor did not respond, trying to recall the rest of the Oath he once had so passionately sworn.

The Lord of the Dead regarded him with his stoic demeanor, eyes burning brightly in the gloomy twilight as Fëanor had never seen them before. _‘Be that as it may, Lord of the unsullied light. Darkness you shall have and that aplenty. In the darkness take counsel with thyself.’_

Fëanor did not look away. The mocking title had stirred something and he had felt as if he had heard them before but this time, he could not summon his memories.

Arms crossed before his chest, Námo smiled at him. _‘I have cursed you once and curse your insolence still.’_

Fëanor’s words were filled with black anger as he cried out, _‘Curse me as your heart desires if you still seek vengeance for your wounded honor. I shall never serve you jealous gods.’_

After that, Fëanor’s defiant spirit had been brought away, to a place darker than even the deepest pits of Utumno must have been – not that he had ever set a foot inside. And there he was being left to _reflect_ as the Lord of the Dead had named it.

Fëanor begged to differ. Left to rot was more correct. But then, he was dead already, so he could hardly rot?  

 

* 

The darkness was cold, almost frosty on Fëanor’s spirit and long drew the hours in the starless darkness of the Halls of Awaiting. They stretched into the endless eternity that knew neither day nor night and all Fëanor was left to do was to watch shadows chase shadows.

Confined to darkness, the years came and went and so must the seasons – with greatest effort Fëanor managed to remember the beauty of autumn, his favorite season. He dared to hope beyond hope that he might smell the smell of fallen leaves and rain soaking the ground; enjoy the feeling of a wind’s embrace just once more.

That he would never be allowed to leave the wretched halls had been made quite clear from the beginning. Any other might plead readily for forgiveness and sue for pardon to win the Vala’s favor by shedding false tears but not him. ‘ _I shall never serve you jealous god nor shall I bow before thee.’_ Despite his waning spirit he remembered that and kept true to his rephrased promise.

He even had somewhat come to terms with his punishment, that was at least what his spirit kept telling the onyx walls, although he still felt injustice gnawing at him from time to time – what else was there to be done than to accept his fate?

_‘What do you expect you will find outside these halls? Cheering crowds and joyful parades upon your return, a warm embrace? Your return to the world of the living is not desired by anyone.’_

Although genuine self-reflection had never been counted among Fëanor’s greatest strengths he hardly expected to be welcomed wherever he went.

Sometimes, he saw the light of flickering candles in the distance. He wasn’t even granted that little comfort, shunned and isolated, unable to communicate with his thoughts. He was trapped and so were his thoughts. Every now and then, Fëanor tried to remember how the warmth of the flames felt against his skin, the joy that came with an embrace; with every day that passed it became harder. His memories seemed to flee with the shadows into brightness until only a blurred vagueness was left to hold onto.

How should he divert his mind from the bleakness of his fate when he had forgotten what true beauty was? Darkness it was for him, a life devoid of beauty, so painful to endure for him who had loved beauty of any sort.

Day after day, month after month Fëanor was confronted with the same blackness and amidst of it all, he felt the strength of his spirit withering until the sound of his inner voice was forgotten.

Over the course of time Fëanor had forgotten what sunshine felt like, the softness of the wind and the warmth genuine affection would bring. The years passed by whilst only the ugliest of memories prevailed, those crimes he should ask forgiveness for. It was a greater punishment than being locked away from all the other spirits who abode their penance somewhere else in the Halls of Awaiting. Memories were golden, whilst his afterlife was black as the night. It was torture of the cruelest sort.

Sometimes, he felt as if his thoughts were interrupted and he was being watched by lingering eyes. Perhaps the silent servants had come again to bring him forth at their lord’s bidding? He had very little intention to find out, having tired of the smiles of false kindness soon enough. Instead, he hid his spirit as best as he could like the craven he had become through long years in which he dwelt in isolated darkness, bound to the shadows until the world was remade.

*


	2. The Consequence of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Halls of Awaiting, Fëanor dreams - and remembers.

**Chapter 02 – The Consequence of Dreams**

*

Darkness came and went, and in the shadows Fëanor sat, all sense of time lost to him as cold fingers wrapped themselves about his soul. It felt like a cold  grave, deep down below the earth. Not even the darkest pits of Angamando could be more hostile than the Halls of Mandos, Fëanor thought, well aware of the similarity of both names. He would have laughed at the irony of it, if he still could. (*) This cold, dark, and barren wasteland was his home now.

By now, he had learned to differentiate the hues of black, just as he could tell the lingering eyes of Námo’s Maiar from one another. They gleamed like cat eyes in the darkness. It was not so that that Fëanor paid the Maiar much attention, not at all, mostly because he could not lash out at them in the way he wanted. If he still had his body, he would at least have been able to throw a pebble at their lurking forms. As he was confined to stillness, the flame of his spirit leaping in silent anger every once in a while was all he could do.

Why he was being watched, he had no true idea; though no bars guarded the place he was kept in, his spirit could not trespass across the invisible border. He had tried that, more than once and still found the fact highly unpleasant.

Perhaps he could request an audience with the Lord of the Dead to at least allow his spirit to drift away from the darkness into the ordinary gloominess of the Halls of Awaiting for a while. He still thought the name a mocking irony – it was a prison and nothing else.

Twice had Fëanor been close to asking the Maiar, so very close, but twice he had discarded the thought after consideration, quite certain that this was exactly what the Vala desired. In the beginning, after the arrival of his soul in the gloomy halls, Fëanor had been offered the company of others, Maiar of lesser power who constantly came and went and elves, among them the souls of the Teleri he had put to the sword himself. In his blind hatred then, he had been too blind to see that those who accused him had some justice in their words.  Now, he would not ask for company, still too proud to admit that the choice he had made in the beginning was perhaps wrong. He would not cater to Námo’s sick entertainment as all the cowards confined with him to the halls undoubtedly did.

He wasn’t one of them.

He had never been one of them.

He was Curufinwë Fëanáro, and not even as vulnerable, houseless spirit he would submit to the Valar’s thralldom, even confined to the marred blackness of a kingdom with no need for light. 

 

*

Unexpectedly, when Fëanor had come to terms with his punishment and the ever watchful Maiar, the hours began to change. Throughout the years, Fëanor’s spirit had been drifting constantly between sleep and wakefulness, though it had never made any difference: in his spirit’s sleep Fëanor saw darkness, just as he did when awake.

Ages passed, and then,  as Fëanor’s soul has just fallen asleep, his spirit’s flame flickered violently. Light so bright it hurt Fëanor’s eyes tried to chase the darkness around him away. Darkness did not yield easily and so the war between light and dark raged in Fëanor’s dreams. Perpetual shadows twisted around Fëanor, trying to succeed against the purest of light; in the end the shadows lost and a strange warmth began to embrace Fëanor’s soul. It spoke to him, inviting him to a journey outside of the prison of the Halls of Awaiting.

Without thinking twice, Fëanor’s soul accepted.

He saw himself walking the shore, alone, watching the ocean as the tide came in and wind playing about his hair. Sunshine kissed his skin and for the first time in too many years to count Fëanor felt – alive, caught in sensations too surreal to comprehend. The light pulsed and breathed, it sang whispers of strange words into Fëanor’s ears, so beautifully that Fëanor felt like crying from the sheer intensity of it. And perhaps, he did?

When he woke up, the light had transformed to bitter shadows again. In the darkness, Fëanor’s spirit panicked.  It was not that darkness surrounded him again. By now he was used to it. It was the fact that he had dreamt. The details of his dream should shrink and scatter like shadows in the sunlight, nothing more than imagination of his distracted spirit.

They did not.   

Despite being unable to physically shake, Fëanor felt his soul tremble for he, and all those who had followed him into exile, had not dreamt since the day they had said farewell to Aman. A grim consequence of the Prophecy of the North. (**) The Lord of Dreams had forsaken them, just as all the other Valar had, in their unjust wrath. At first, Fëanor had not thought much about the lack of dreams; his own dreams and visions of the better world he would create were a by far sufficient distraction to occupy his mind with. 

After Alqualondë things changed; the fateful incidence of burning his own son had left his other sons shaken and in grief, unable to process the dark memories in their sleep without the soothing whisper of dream. Amras had been affected most of all by the dreamless sleep and had never truly recovered. Perhaps he never would, Fëanor thought, overcome by pity.

Fëanor’s soul, deeply unsettled, shook in the darkness. He had dreamt, for the first time in too many years to count, he had dreamt. And more: all of a sudden, Fëanor remembered, and he felt. The anger and compassion for his sons’ cries of desperation after they had realized that Amrod had not come ashore to sleep; the grief and horror he had felt himself that morning, terror of the sort he wished all his remaining life he had never known. Even now, long dead, the words of rightful accusation hit him like a punch into his guts.

In the darkness, Fëanor’s spirit wept in agony, pain ripping through his soul like the Balrog’s fiery whip through his flesh, giving him the mortal wound. He would have screamed if he only could – but what would his words be, rendered speechless as it was? His mind, though still sharp as ever, failed to comprehend the change of the world of shadows without memories of better days he had become so accustomed to, the emptiness all of sudden gone. 

Day after day Fëanor’s spirit lingered in darkness.

Night after night henceforth dreams crept deep into his soul.

Each dream sparked memories that Fëanor had long forgotten: memories of the years he had spent in relative bliss and beauty, years before the strife between his half-brother and him had changed all their fates.

The next morning, more long-lost memories returned to him. Fëanor closed his eyes and breathed in. For once the air felt fresh in his lungs as if he was walking across a meadow that was nothing but flowers, pink and white and yellow petals brushing against his bare feet, still wet from the rain before. He could even smell the flowers as if they were truly there, blossoming in the darkness of his prison. They weren’t, but in his mind, amidst the darkness, beauty sprang to life.

He thought of his childhood then; of the smell of his wife he had become addicted to immediately, the embrace she so willingly had offered.

In his dreams he saw himself walking at his father’s hand, squeaking and shouting as he threw flowers high into the air until he was exhausted. Fëanor felt close to crying – he had loved his father above all else, more than each and every of his creations. Why it was that all this came to his mind, Fëanor could not say. His spirit drifted back and forth through old memories. Though startled at first, he embraced the emotions sparked by re-reading the book of his life, worn and yellowed from too many reads.

At first, Fëanor had genuinely believed that the return of his memories, and the emotions and the feelings that had come with them, was a blessing, and his spirit had wept in joy and gratitude. That it was not so, he learned soon enough. The memories made everything worse. Confined to darkness, remembering the beauty that lay outside, was the ultimate punishment and so much worse to endure than pure bleakness.

Oh so easily he had been deceived to fall for the Valar’s idle games. In anger he cursed his own foolishness. How cruel it was to leave him the beautiful illusion of choice, when he had had none except to be confined to eternal darkness until the world was remade. A cry of rage fled his spirit and his whole soul convulsed at the effort to chase after the fleeing Maiar.

But then, other thoughts blossomed amidst his anger and he found himself blinking into the blackness.

What if the Valar had taken his memories from him out of pity from the start, to make his penance more bearable? Fëanor doubted it with all his heart, mostly because after all what had happened he could not allow himself to think otherwise. Yet although knowledge would not change anything, a morbid part of him wished to ask the Lord of the Dead for it. After all, knowledge had been what Fëanor had craved above all else in life; the thirst to know and learn was never quenched in his soul, not even in death. Despite having lived for long years among them, the strange ways of the Valar had remained a mystery to him most of the time, even before the final rift.  He might understand what was happening to him if he had known more.

The musings kept Fëanor occupied for many days and sleep eluded him because he actively fought against it.  

Why would they give him back his feelings after years spent in darkness, unless it was another form of punishment for not cooperating as they wished him to?

Why grant him the comfort of light, when all he truly had was darkness wrapped around his shaking spirit? 

Being treated with genuine compassion by the Valar did not fit to the view of the world Fëanor still held onto.

_Deception. Treachery._

The words had formed immediately in Fëanor’s mind, following his initial train of thoughts and into his raging spirit the accursed doom wove itself. _‘And your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you.’_

“Deception served on a golden plate,” Fëanor spat into the darkness, venom in his voice.  So they took it for granted that he would fall for the brightness of the dreams and crave it, so that in the end he would beg at their feet. No, he would not take the bait so plainly laid out for him. _‘I shall not fall for your illusions and half-lies.’_

While he was awake, Fëanor repeated the words in his mind.

  he fell for the warmth and comfort the light brought his freezing spirit.

Oddly, it wasn’t anger that rose in Fëanor then, but sadness at everything he would never see and feel again. Day after day, painful uncertainty gnawed at him, until curiosity got the better of him, silencing his pride: he would seek Námo out.

 _‘You useless spirits,’_ Fëanor was about to say to the silent Maiar who watched him but thought better of it. Though he would not beg, to them least of all, he had to be at least distinctly polite. “I demand an audience,” he muttered, surprised by the effort it took his fëa to form the words.

They did not answer him and in his pride he did not speak again.

 

*

Before long, Fëanor’s memories began to blur with his dreams – or was it the other way round? He couldn’t tell for certain. Whilst the days were still pitch-black, the nights became radiant as the unsullied light of the jewels he had once created with so much passion and love.

Though he still told himself that he would not fall for the beautiful illusion, Fëanor knew he already had, as even in wakefulness the sensations lingered. He was drawn towards the light like a moth to the flame and as consequence his spirit slept more and more, embracing the comfort of feeling alive despite being dead. As time passed, Fëanor began to reflect on his life.

There had been times when he had dismissed sleep as an idle necessity and had barely slept at all, afraid to forget his brilliant thoughts.

When next he dreamt, Fëanor saw a familiar face through the cloudy mists, softened by the hazy twilight. It was too far away to touch, bright and fair in the sunshine as the mist dissolved, with silver hair flowing in the wind. As he came closer, he saw finest silk of blue and silver flutter in the wind, playing about the man’s body in a way that was too familiar to Fëanor, as was the man’s smile. Fëanor saw himself return it, a challenge lingering in his gaze.

Words that Fëanor had once said wove itself into his dream, accompanied by long forgotten images of how he had come before the gates of Valmar in all his pride. He had stood answer to all their questions yet not even that had seemed to be enough – he had been sentenced to years in exile.

In his dream it mattered not. He was touching him, Fëanor could feel the press of jeweled fingers against his cheek and he could feel his body physically react to the touch. Fëanor reached out to return the touch, then hesitated. Doubt and regret knotted in his chest, tightening and burning up his throat upon the fiery speech he had made, by which he had stirred rebellion and so much worse. His life had been fire and fury and no matter how bitterly it had ended, with the consequences inherited to his sons, he would never regret the choices he had once made, so he had always told himself. But then, would his passionate anger not have been better spent elsewhere? A smile of triumph flashed across the Vala’s features and then he was gone.

Upon waking, Fëanor burned, in desire and doubt. And then he cursed.

What witchery was this new obsession of his, though feverish infatuation was perhaps the better word to describe his current state of mind? Fëanor’s spirit felt troubled, knowing exactly whose hands it were that had caressed him so tenderly in his dreams. But had it been a dream, or rather a fantasy he had not allowed to creep back into his mind for thousands of years?  It pained him and it equally enthralled him. The dreams were as if someone was constantly pouring honey into his ears, a not entirely unwelcome sensation.

Later, when he tried to break the bounds of the world of shadows again, he dreamt of flowing silks and idle chatter; of laughter and hushed kisses against wine-stained lips.

Each waking, Fëanor felt guilt rise in his mind, thick and nauseating, for having his defenseless spirit corrupted so shamefully.

And yet, later,, Fëanor would let himself be willingly ensnared by slumber, curious about what would happen next. Sometimes, just before his spirit lay down to sleep, he thought the dreams showed him what his life could have been like if he had never begun the rebellion. Words such as pre-destined affection flittered through his mind and Fëanor knew they were not lies. 

In his dreams, a susurrating voice replied to his words, soft as the winds of summer he had so much loved in his youth when great feasts were held in the golden city of Valmar, when peace and quiet had still reigned these lands and all had been well. Laughter had mingled with the chiming bells and he had danced with many whenever the opportunity had presented itself. Fëanor had never thought that he would remember these festivals with – what was it that he felt? Fondness? Yes, that had been the word, he remembered it now.

Memories kept pouring into his dreams. Fëanor recalled how he had denied both Eldar and Valar the sight of the precious stones out of pure spite when he had come to the feast in ordinary clothes. Though he had grudgingly reconciled with his half-brother before Manwë’s throne in that hour, Fëanor had never put true grief aside. How should he, with his father slain? Fëanor still remembered the hot tears of anger he had shed, the way he had cursed the King of Arda’s summons that he so foolishly had heeded.

Now, thinking about his past, Fëanor felt hints of shame flicker against the shell of his spirit  – and for once he wished he could say that ignoring the Valar’s decrees had been his worst crime. With all his heart he had cursed the Valar, and Manwë himself; he had spat in his herald’s face, accusations tumbling so easily from his lips and as the words coiled in Fëanor’s mind, _‘_ _Say this to Manwë Súlimo, High-king of Arda: If Fëanor cannot overthrow Morgoth, at least he delays not to assail him, and sits not idle in grief,’_ shame now burned brightly. The kindness he received in his dreams did not go well together with the words and deeds of his anger. Though sparked by Morgoth’s lies, his actions had been his own and he was fully responsible for them. In anger and grief he had turned his back on the land of his childhood, vengeance calling him to forsake all good that there still was.

They might be miles apart when Fëanor was awake but in his dreams, Manwë had become a part of his soul; the sunshine that warmed him; the spark of the flint who brought back the fire of his spirit and for the first time, Fëanor did not struggle sub-consciously against the beautiful illusions but welcomed them.

Fëanor’s breath hitched as he recalled another feast he had once attended. Fiery red ribbons, adorned with sparkling diamonds were woven into Fëanor’s partly braided hair that night, the combined colors perfectly matching the color of his robes, black with silver and red highlights. About his throat he wore a necklace, the precious gemstones of unsullied light carefully set into the settings for all the world to see. Often had he been told that his appearance could even rival with the otherworldly spirits of the Valar and it had never failed to spark his pride. He knew well how to use it for his advantage, just as he knew that he would attract immediate attention by parading the Silmarils so openly, in a time long before the rift had come between Fëanor and the Lords of the West. The moment he began to climb the stairs of finest marble that lead high up towards Taniquetil where both Maiar and Valar were arrayed in their beauty and majesty all eyes were directed at him. Fëanor bathed in the sudden attention, deliberately slowing his steps to prolong the sensation. Reaching the top, he ran a hand through his curly, dark hair as he watched a fair lady observing him closely. A smile formed on his lips, before he turned away.

Despite her beauty, it wasn’t her plain and ordinary attention he had come for. Though he dared not to admit it, the summons he had received from Arda’s king, for him alone Manwë had commanded to come, had both sparked a challenge and excitement.

Fëanor had always striven for the greatest of creations and desired what he should never have, accepting challenge whenever it was presented. So he found himself searching the crowd, gaze quite provocative with his mind already one step ahead.

The chorus of merriment went still in Fëanor’s mind the moment he felt fingers brush his own, just a second too long to be accidental, or to be mistaken for a polite gesture of greeting. “Your presence honors me,” Manwë said and to Fëanor it was as if the Vala’s breath hitched just as his own had. Fëanor flashed him a smile at the acknowledgement but said nothing. The moment hung in the air between them, silent yet still urgent, heavy and vibrating with too many words left unsaid until the laughter around them disrupted the beauty of it and Manwë was gone. In Fëanor’s mind however, the sensation lingered for all the hours to come. Despite all the matter-of-fact handshakes and courtesies he received, his mind was incredibly distracted, becoming fixated all too easily.

Fëanor remembered well how that night had ended, with lingering gazes cast at each other across the distance safe enough; in idle drunkenness, so unlike for one known for his self-control; with his father’s chiding words.

Though in his dream he ignored it all; in his dreams, the fantasies of old sprang to life, clearer than Fëanor had ever allowed them in his life. Even now, he could feel the brush of fingers against his own and the flutter of his heart when he felt the Vala’s arms around his waist, pulling him closer.

Fëanor hesitated.

“We are alone, if that is your concern,” the voice, melodious like laughter in the wind, affirmed him.

It wasn’t. If all of Valmar’s population was their spectator, Fëanor would not care. 

His concerns lay elsewhere; in his own inexperience.   Fëanor’s eyes fell shut, and he finally managed to shake his head in denial.

Silently encouraging Fëanor, Manwë ran his fingers through Fëanor’s hair, black curls stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat as kisses were trailed across his jaw and up to his ear until in response Fëanor shuddered, eyes still closed. If he opened them he perhaps would see the blue of the sky above him, or perhaps silver hair hindering his vision. His mouth was full of warmth as are his hands against his exposed skin, bringing forth little noises in the back of Fëanor’s throat. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.” Seeing black shadows drift overhead, terror seized Fëanor’s soul as he realized he wasn’t dreaming anymore, that want and lust was once more becoming a part of his mind’s fantasies. Though fantasy was perhaps not quite the appropriate word; the dream, and all the desire that came with it, was a memory Fëanor had long forced out of his mind. And had never allowed it to return as long as he had lived.

Perhaps he should have, Fëanor thought then, because the warmth and light it brought his soul was the beacon of light in a sea of darkness. That he was confined to isolation was his own fault, having rejected all options he had been presented with, he admitted that now, for the very first time. The initial misery was not exactly the Valar’s fault, although a part of him still wished to believe exactly that, even if he knew better. In all the years he could have asked; in his pride Fëanor never did. 

He ached for the touch, surprised by how a houseless spirit could so clearly feel the emotions of physical desire. Hot shame burned through Fëanor’s soul that the one he has scorned, sparked such a terrible want.  

Could it be that whenever he dreamed, the other was thinking about him? Fëanor wondered and somehow even wished it, yet was willing to dismiss the foolish thought immediately . His dreams were nothing else than cocooned and well preserved desires of his own wicked mind, brought to life by the dark  situation he was in and by opportunities long gone by, because no matter what accusations, some righteously, some rather not, he had once brought forth, he was sure of this:  Manwë would not invade his dreams in such a shameful manner.

 _‘Dreams,’_ Fëanor laughed because he was clearly awake by now, yet still the sensations lingered in his mind and he found himself actively spinning the fantasies further.

Could he truly live on drunken fantasies?

He knew the answer before he had even finished his thought, which did not necessarily meant he acted upon it. Pride still got the better of him, though indeed he had begun to reflect upon his words and deeds.

The next time he dreamed, the sound of footsteps echoed through the corridors long before Fëanor saw the gleaming light that sparked familiar excitement. The light chased away the overwhelming darkness of the cell too, and for the first time his spirit could truly see his surroundings.

Self-control had become non-existent in Fëanor’s dreams. He had his hands tangled in silver hair before he even knew he desired to initiate physical contact, startled by his own desperation and behavior, rewarded by a short press of lips. After a while, Fëanor found himself telling Manwë everything about the wretched misery his death had brought him; about the endless hours of darkness and the intellectual starvation the isolation had caused and for the first time in ages, something akin to an apology slipped from Fëanor’s lips. He took comfort in being held close until no tears would come anymore, and in the hands moving soothingly across his back, welcoming the change in touch when at last he had calmed down.

Lips searched for Fëanor’s own, initiating a kiss that rekindled the flame of his spirit, the cure for all the false accusations that had so easily fallen from his lips. Whom once he had called the constrainer of his soaring spirit had become his savior. In his dreams, Fëanor could flee towards the Everlasting Whiteness, crowned with stars, whenever he wished to. The palace of marble had become his sanctuary when all other lights had gone out for him and readily he accepted the invitations.

The excitement turned into choking disappointment the moment when Fëanor awoke. Never before had a dream felt so real, as if Manwë had truly visited him for an hour or two to bring him comfort. Fëanor’s spirit wept in the never-ending darkness and its cold embrace, finally admitting that he craved the brightness and everything that came with it as he had hardly craved anything ever before.

This time, he did not hold himself back any more, the flame of his soul wafting towards the watchful Maiar as far as he could. “You useless, idle spirits, bring word to your wretched Master that I seek answers to my questions.”

To his surprise, the request was heard.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) explanation: Angband (Angamando) and Mandos both derive from the same Quenya element. mando = custody, prison, with -os “stronghold” (so Mandos/Námo’s halls is basically Stronghold of Custody)  
> (**) The idea is based on thoughts I had a few weeks ago: [On the Noldorin Exiles and Dreams](http://feanope.tumblr.com/post/172352968120/on-the-noldorin-exiles-and-dreams-whilst-looking)


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